Deathstyles
by clinkeroo
Summary: This short is based upon Ian Fleming's Bond, both in its character, and its prose. I've always loved Fleming's short stories, and hopefully this will pay due tribute to them. Thanks.


**_Deathstyles of the Rich and Blameless_**

Kathleen watched the man rise from the rattan sun chair and glide over to the mini bar located just to the starboard side of the deck. From behind the shielding presence of her sunglasses, she admired his well-defined muscles working beneath the Caribbean-blessed bronze skin, wondering once again what it would feel like to have the "mere civil servant" hold her. She knew he'd been appraising her as well, although she could never catch him doing so directly. After all, there were only the two of them on the relatively small sundeck of the Bertram Motor yacht the Prince had chartered, and the man had volunteered to stay behind and watch over her while the Prince, Bill Cartwright, and Bill's girl of the moment, a New York model named Francis, had gone ashore to Basil's Bar for another round of the carousing and drinking that seemed to be the cornerstones of the Prince's existence. Normally, she would have been game for the adventure, but the excitement of the day before had left her somewhat drained, and she was more than content to worship the gentle rays of Mustique in the company of the mysterious spy that had saved her life. 

"Mr. Bond," she asked. "Is it customary for you to drink while on duty?"

The man shrugged, and in doing so she watched the taunt muscles of his upper back flex. He wore nothing but a small, coffee-coloured Speedo swimsuit. She switched positions on the Chaise Lounge so she was on her side facing him, putting on an ostentatious and unnecessary display of her own yellow slip of a bikini.

He paused in the pouring of a healthy dose of Haig & Haig into a crystal short glass, looking back over his shoulder in her direction, a grimace working at the edge of his cruel mouth. It had been obvious from their meeting two days earlier, when he'd climbed out of the eight-seat island hopper at the small runway on the northwest side of the island, that he held her in some sort of contempt. Randy, her own little endearment for the Prince she'd adopted from the "journalists" of Fleet Street, had attempted to deflect some of her concerns about the man that first evening as the two of them lay in the grand bed at Les Jolies Eaux.

Randy had laughed and pulled her tight against him beneath the creamy silk sheets.

"I'm afraid you will have to grow accustomed to the English way, my dear. The People aren't going to be terribly fond of our being… together; the Prince carrying on with an American film star and all that." She'd wanted to remind him she was far from being a "star" and that her films had been of somewhat questionable quality, but she let him continue on uninterrupted. "Mr. James Bond is no exception. Let's try to remember the press are the reason he's here."

Kathleen looked past Bond and out into the Caribbean. Canouan lay beyond the light blue waters of Gelliceaux Bay, and beyond that, several of the other Grenadines poked their green heads from the calm, lapping waves. Somewhere in the distance, there was a boat engine roaring. Mustique was a private island, but there was a flotilla of chartered boats just beyond her waters, boats filled with the paparazzi that had been preying on her and Randy since they'd anchored the yacht, and taken up residence at the home of Randy's aunt, Princess Margaret. 

Apparently, back at Whitehall, there had been some hubbub about how quickly their presence had registered with the press. When a few inquiries were made, it turned out many of the major tabloids had been tipped off with anonymous phone calls. Randy had told her his mother, with Thatcher probably egging her on, had become convinced the Russians had dropped a little intelligence to the papers just to drag the Windsor name through more mud, and cause a few more cracks in the public's perception of the monarchy. Her Royal Highness had personally requested that Mr. Bond of M16 join them on their holiday, and from his surly mood since his arrival, it was obvious Bond harboured about as much zeal in being there, as they felt in having him along.

Bond, who was in great shape for a man easily twenty years her senior, still stood before the bar with his back to her, as he too was intently gazing out at the ocean from behind the lenses of his Jean Paul Gaultier's. She followed his line of sight out to sea and saw the small approaching craft. It appeared to be a ramshackle fishing boat which may have once been painted green, but the men on its rear deck had no lines trailing back into the water, instead, they held cameras up to their faces, the huge, phallic black lenses clearly visible to her naked eye from several hundred meters. 

"Bastards," she muttered under her breath. The local trawlers on the surrounding islands must be making a killing renting out their boats to the jackals, she knew. Though the persecution of Randy and her hadn't had any personal benefits, at least it had been an economic boon to the fishermen of the local islands. For what seemed like the hundredth time, she fought back the playful urge to lift up her top and give them a real show, but even though Randy enjoyed being a burden on his family's aristocratic ways, she doubted if he would find such a display amusing. James Bond, however, showed no such restraint. 

"Now, let's see if they're paying attention."

She watched him absently reach into the bowl of local fruit sitting temptingly on the bar next to the small range of colourful bottles and the ice bucket. He held a dark red plantain next to his leg. Drawing it up along the side of his body, as if it had been holstered, he then spread his legs at shoulder's length, and took a classic firing stance with the plantain levelled squarely at the distant craft.

The effect was nearly instantaneous. The men on the deck scattered, and she could actually hear their shouts, and the crashing of their equipment, as they dove for the cover of the narrow railings of the craft. The other craft's engine roared, and it left a thick, white wake in its hasty retreat.

She giggled out loud, and surprisingly, Bond joined her laughter.

"Good God," she told him, as he brought his whiskey over and sat in the chair next to her. "You aren't all pomp and circumstance. There is actually a human being under there somewhere."

He worked his mouth into a smile, and she could sense his eyes, behind the dark lenses, were taking a mental stroll across her tight, athletic body. She'd been hoping for a chink to appear in his staunch armour ever since they'd arrived back from Kingstown the day before, and she didn't intend to waste the opportunity.

"One can hope word would make its way back to the flotilla," he said. "Maybe you and the Prince can have a few hours peace before they come sniffing around again."

She laughed once more, this time with less humour and more intent.

"I doubt if we see Randy for the rest of the day. He'll probably be downing drinks and charming the waitresses out of their cocktail skirts until well into the morning." She damned his sunglasses, but watched his face all the same, looking for some sign of recognition of the offer she'd just laid wide open before him. All she received for her efforts was a slight frown, and a shrug of his shoulders. Disappointing, and yet, he didn't move away.

"Let me guess, it isn't your place to question the Prince, or to critique his behaviour? Is it something like that?"

"Something like that," he assented in a grumble.

"A perfectly good waste of privacy, if you ask me," she was more than a little embarrassed to be playing so far over the top. But there was something else in this exchange with the strong, handsome, but secretive man that was keeping her on edge, something far beyond simple sexual politics.

"I would imagine someone in your position might like the exposure," he told her. "You could do quite well to have your face on the cover of every newspaper in the Western world. Your name would be a little higher on the marquee, as well as on several exclusive lists."

_So that's what he was getting on about,_ she thought.

"You think this is about me getting famous?" she could feel the colour rising in her cheeks, but he still didn't back away.

He shrugged again, choosing to remain silent this time.

"I hate being out here like this, like some trussed up goldfish in a bowl. I hate the goddamn media and their goddamn cameras taking their little slices of my life away. You think it's easy falling in love with someone like Randy? He's a good man, with a good heart, and I hope some day he gets the chance to show everyone just how special he is, but he always puts on these airs as if its some part he's resigned to; the booze, the women, the crazy lifestyle, it's as if it's expected of him. The whole world wants to see me as Randy's little whore! I suppose that's how you're looking at me too beneath those glasses of yours."

She was angry, but her father had raised her to not show tears. "A veil of weakness" he'd called them. Instead, she leaned forward, pulled back a hand, and slapped Mr. James Bond as hard across the face as she could manage.

The damning glasses skittered across the deck, coming to a rest in a twisted heap next to the cabin door. Bond had never raised a hand to stop her, although she'd seen the man move so fast on Saint Vincent he'd been little more than a blur, fast enough she was sure he could have blocked her blow like an errant fly if he'd so wished. He just continued to sit there facing her, staring at her with his cool, grey eyes as a sea breeze tousled his short, black hair. There was anger hidden in his gaze, and in his tensed jaw muscles, across which a red, hand-shaped imprint was growing, but there was none of the disdain she'd sensed earlier. Embarrassed, her eyes dropped from his, and came to settle on the white bandage on his forearm where one of the thug's machetes had caught him.

It had all been her fault. She and Francis had been the ones complaining about the limited shopping on Mustique, where the few stores were owned by the island management, and offered little more than what you could find in any boutique in New York or London. They had confronted the men with their dilemma while the latter two had been enjoying cigars in the lounge.

"So," Randy had asked her. "You want to behave like any other middleclass cruise line tourist and visit the island shops filled with trinkets manufactured in Hong Kong? Here at least the press isn't allowed onto the island, once you are off these shores they'll be on you ten meters deep."

Kathleen couldn't stand when he took pompous tones with her; it wasn't like him, and she knew he was just doing it for the show. He was much kinder without an audience.

"Maybe that's exactly what we want to do, it's better than being trapped on this cage of an island for two weeks," she'd told him. She didn't like getting worked up in front of him; he seemed to enjoy it too much, as if confrontation was a sweet he'd been denied as a child.

"Oh, but it's a lovely cage," Bill had chimed in, all the while playing with the lace coverlet covering the couch he was reclining on.

"Shut up, Rich Boy," she told him. "If I want anything from you I'll ask the Prince to pull your cord."

This brought a laugh from all those present, but just seemed to stoke her fire a little more. Bond had been unfortunate enough to walk into at that moment.

"As for the press, isn't that his job?" she said jerking a thumb in 007's direction.

"I don't know," the Prince chirped. "Why don't we ask the man? Mr. Bond, do you feel you could adequately keep the boys off of us if we were to do a little island hopping and shopping?"

Bond had pulled a cigarette from a silver metal case in his vest. He seemed to ponder the question for a moment while taking a long drag of smoke into his lungs. Kathleen hadn't recognized the cigarette brand, with its little gold bands, but the smell of the things was heavy and repugnant. It was strange how when men smoked, it was like blood in the water, and all other men in the area had to light up as well.

"No offence intended, Your Highness," Bond began by addressing the Duke, she noticed, as all English civil servants did, with reverence and a hint of contempt. "But it may be easier to keep the ladies secure without you there. Without the huge security detail, they'll be much less conspicuous, and their likenesses aren't as well known, or at least as highly prized with the press. Kingstown is really the only city large enough to support descent stores for the ladies to keep themselves busy."

_Goddamn,_ Kathleen had thought at the time. _You just gave him a way out, Jackass. And I'll bet you did it on purpose. _

"Splendid!" the Prince beamed. "Tomorrow you can accompany the ladies on the morning jumper to Saint Vincent, and Bill and I shall endeavour to keep ourselves entertained. Maybe some parasailing, or some tennis."

_Or some drinking, or some womanising,_ Kathleen had continued in her mind.

The lift-off from the tiny runway on Mustique was always thrilling. The pilot had to gain enough altitude within the first hundred meters to clear a huge green hill that lay waiting at the end of the runway. The little twin prop plane's nose would poke into the air at an incredibly steep angle as the passengers were sucked back into their seats. If you watched from one of the side windows you could see the tops of trees pass just a few meters beneath as the small aircraft climbed over the hill.

The spy, for Randy had assured her that he was, sat silently in his seat throughout the entire flight. By this time, Kathleen had decided he was not only contemptuous, but as obnoxious as his taste in cigarettes. For the most part, she and Francis ignored him throughout the flight, and then for their first few hours on St. Vincent. He was little more than a shadow to them as they skipped from shop to shop, acquiring a few pieces of clothing here, or a little native woodworking there. By the time they were eating lunch in a roadside shack that featured grilled lobster with fried bananas and a jicama slaw on the side, they were completely oblivious to his presence. Just as they were oblivious to the three large black men who were sitting in the rear of the shack, drinking what appeared to be rum. If they had, they may have noticed the men's eyes were dead sober and never left them. Later, Kathy would curse herself for being so thick. She had spent much of her life in New York City, and had developed the knack of always looking over her shoulder, and avoiding situations and places where she could be compromised. But here in the Caribbean, everything was more relaxed, and this included her guard. It didn't help that sand mites kept nipping at their legs, but the meal was more than worth the irritation.

The three islanders waited until they happened upon a short expanse of alley with no other pedestrians, and no shop doors to escape within.

Bond had been the first of them to turn, but by then the men were already within arm's reach.

"Kathleen," Bond had said to her.

She turned, shocked not only by his still being there, but that he actually knew her name at all. What she saw was the three towering black men, all wearing what she'd come to think of as the uniform of the islanders, a sleeveless earth tone shirt, with worn and bleached khaki shorts, and sandals. The one noticeable difference between these men and their ilk was that they each held a gleaming machete. 

She thought of screaming, but her breath failed her, deciding instead to remain balled up in her chest.

"Run," Bond beseeched her, a small, compact gun materializing in his hand. "Run, find a large group of people, and stay with them. Locate a constable if you can."

The men had stepped back at the appearance of the gun, but they didn't flee. She started to back away slowly, and one of the men said something in a language that sounded something like French.

Still backing away, she turned to Francis.

"Did you understand what he said?"

"I'm not sure," Francis replied as she turned to flee. "It's not proper French, but I believe he just told your friend he can only shoot one of them. Apparently, they only want the women, and he's free to walk away."

"Run!" Bond shouted this time, shaking her from her panicked malaise. She dropped her packages and bolted for the open mouth of the alley about half a block away. She looked back after twenty meters and saw Bond staring down at his gun.

_Oh my God_, she realised. _His gun's jammed_.

The two men on the sides were starting to come after them, while the third in the middle made a lunge at Bond with the machete. 

"James!" she screamed.

Discarding the firearm, he sidestepped the machete and grabbed for the man's extended wrist, folding it into the assailant's body to the point that the other man screamed and released his weapon. The machete now in hand, Bond elbowed the man to the face and the attacker collapsed to his back. Before the man had even hit the ground, Bond had swung into a crouch and extended a leg into the ankles of one of their would-be pursuers. This one also went down hard, but by this time, the third man was too far down the alley for Bond to reach. He was almost upon her, and she turned to flee once again, even though she knew she could never outrun the man. As she looked down the alleyway, she could see that at least Francis had reached the end. Perhaps the woman would find help before she and Bond were both dead.

Kathleen could now hear the man's breathing over her shoulder as she ran. He was panting something between breaths for herans she was thankful she could not understand the meanings of the crude sounding words.

Suddenly, there was a clatter, the man yelped, and then collapsed behind her. She glanced back, but never stopped running, her heart now attempting to pound through her chest. Her pursuer was on the ground holding his right shin, screaming French curses at the sliver of sky above the alley. There was a second machete at his feet, and she realized that Bond must have flung the machete at the other man's legs as he ran. She'd seen New York cops on television practicing the same manoeuvre with batons.

The first two men to fall had regained their feet now, and they had a hold of Bond, one man restraining, while the other was working him over freely with his fists.

"Run, you stupid bird!" Bond shouted at her one last time and she turned her back to flee.

She and Francis had found a crowd just as he'd told them to, and then in short order, they'd found a policeman as well. His complexion was that of an American Indian, and he was very friendly. He radioed in their story, waited a few moments for the garbled reply, and then informed them that no such disturbance had been reported as of yet. They escourted the man, his name was Colin, back to the alley and showed him where the attack had taken place. It sickened Kathy to see fresh blood on the ground. Everything else, the men, the gun, the machetes, they were all gone, only the blood remained. Just a few hours earlier she'd been thinking of Bond as obnoxious, and yet he'd been willing to give his life for them. 

"We should head back and file a full report," Colin told them. "You must realise, such things are rare here, there is very little crime in the Grenadines."

He'd been kind to them, but she was still tempted to tell him how little comfort these words lent her now.

They'd spent the remainder of the day in the Kingstown police station. They phoned Les Jolies Eaux, but Ernesto, the butler, informed them the Prince was still out. She cursed her lover under her breath.

It was nightfall before they made their way back to the island hopper, and there, Bond was waiting for them, already strapped into his seat.

The two women had gasped, and attempted to hug him where he'd sat.

"James…how did you?" she stammered.

"I'd really rather not talk about it," he said as he held up his bandaged arm to ward them off.

"What happened to your arm?" Francis asked.

"Once again," he said, this time harder and colder. "I'd rather not talk about it."

"But those men," Kathleen started again.

"I managed to find my gun again, alright? Needless to say, I'm here, you're both here, and your packages are safely tucked away into the cargo hatch. Can we please just leave it there?" he'd been nearly shouting by the time he'd reached the last bit.

The flight back had been in silence.

She'd told Randy about their adventure after he'd stumbled in early the next morning, smelling of the bar, and of a few other things she didn't want to think about. He'd simply laughed about the last bit.

"Don't let it concern you, Kath," he told her. "These secret service types aren't much for grandstanding, as you Yanks call it. They're mostly a private, moody lot. He probably just sees what he did as doing his job."

She hadn't been sure whom to be angrier with, Bond for not accepting their concern and thanks for what he'd done, or the Prince for having been so dismissive of another man's heroics in defending the life of his alleged love.

Kathleen remembered that concern and thanks now as she held out a delicate, tentative finger and gently traced the edge of the welt on Bond's face with her fingertip. It merged nicely there amongst the other colourful bruises the man had suffered the day before, and the scars of what must have been a lifetime of such adventures.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, ashamed at her own display, her anger dissipating like a summer storm. "I'm sorry I ever came to this place. I've wanted out of this life for so long; jets, drugs, caviar, pretty people doing horrible things to one another. You just start to wrap your mind around an idea, like getting out and having a normal life again, and then a handsome Prince asks you to the ball," she hung her head low, embarrassed. "How can you turn that down? Isn't that every little girl's dream? So you go with him, and all the craziness starts up again; the paparazzi, those men yesterday, and your Prince wants to spend more time in the bar than with you. You just end up wanting something solid to hold onto."

"You're solid, aren't you, Mr. James Bond of Her Majesty's Secret Service?"

"For the weekend, I will be whatever you and the Prince need me to be," he replied, but this time his voice betrayed a hint of compassion.

She leaned to the edge of the lounge.

"Then hold me," she whispered to him, curling up against him where he sat with her head resting against his chest. They stayed like that for a while, she seemingly dozing on the edge of sleep, and he running a hand absently through her hair.

Bond damned himself for what he had to do, but there had been no doubt as to M's instructions.

"007, there is not another woman, nor man, on the face of this earth who could even get me to consider such action. I would have even rebuked such an offer from the Prime Minister herself, and used pointed language in doing so. But to be called on the carpet before Her Majesty…"

Bond had felt awkward just watching the old man attempting to bring the necessary words forth. The Admiral's hands fidgeted with the slipper of tobacco before him as he uncharacteristically stammered about, searching for some comfortable way of bridging the topic.

"I've been required to set simple morality aside for the Crown on many occasions, and you, 007, have made a career of it," his mouth had opened to continue, but initially nothing came out. "James, She asked me personally, She asked for you personally."

Bond had been surprised by M's use of his Christian name, something Sir Miles had only done in the past when asking a personal favour of him, but it was not nearly as shocking as the details of the mission that followed.

The sun was a little lower now, and the girl in his arms was sound asleep, shallow, feminine breaths escaping her. Mercifully, he'd been correct, and more photographers had not descended upon them as of yet. The girl was vulnerable enough, and thankfully, this hurt was to be a private one, and not to be played out before the masses.

Bond lifted her easily in his arms. The girl was very slight, and he would have been surprised if she weighed more than seven stone. She muttered something to him sleepily, and then brushed her lips across his throat as he carried her to the cabin door, and then down the staircase below decks, having to turn sideways as they went through the narrow passage.

M and himself were the only ones at Regent's Park privy to the full details of the mission. Obviously, Moneypenny could have picked out some of the particulars, having booked his flight to Kingstown, and then the hopper flight to Mustique, and certainly Major Boothryod had provided the necessary equipment, but he'd done so as he usually did, with its true intentions having been veiled to him. No, this one was M's and his bastard child.

The idea of the "mugging" had been Sir Miles's, to help create a quick bond between the woman and Bond. Station K had recruited the three Kingstown natives. Bond had been shocked hearing M speaking to Jamaica over the telephone.

"The bigger, the blacker, the better," the old man had insisted.

Bond had rehearsed the fight with them on his brief layover on the island. The "play" had become a little rough, but the wound had only strengthened the indebtedness she felt toward him. Once she'd cleared the alley, Bond had "finished them off" by shaking hands and paying them their well-earned wages. Bond was just thankful his aim had been true enough that he hadn't lobbed off the one bloke at the knees when he'd thrown the machete. As it turned out, the men had been so grateful for the work, they'd actually driven him to the hospital, and waited until he'd been dismissed, before heading back to their homes and families.

The "owner's stateroom" took up most of lower deck of the boat, with two, much smaller bedrooms sandwiched toward the bow, and most of the stateroom was taken up by a luxurious king-size bed. There were recessed cupboards about the bed filled with such niceties as a full stereo system, a television, another mini-bar, and if the specs provided to MI6 by the man who'd rented the yacht were to be believed, many cubbies for some of the Prince's more personal items.

As he laid Kathleen down upon the bed, she opened her eyes wide and smiled up at him. She wasn't exactly his type, far too frail, and not much of a figure, but there was no denying she was a beautiful woman as she lay there with her raven black hair splayed across a cream-coloured silk pillow. James Bond found himself stirring even through the more than awkward circumstances. He mentally damned himself once more, reminding that same self he'd already earned hell a thousand times over, and one more trip into the breach for Her Majesty wasn't going to make a bit of difference. 

"That swimsuit isn't offering you much in the way of modesty," she informed him. "Maybe you should join me down here beneath the covers."

"Just a moment, Darling," he informed her. He reached to the headboard, and stuck his hand into a well-hidden shelf, removing his gunmetal cigarette case. "For later," he informed her surprised expression.

"How did you know that would be there?" she asked.

He grinned at her.

"As you have so aptly pointed out over the last few days, I am a spy." He then placed the case on the small corner nightstand just to his right.

Feeling so much the whore Kathleen had accused herself of being, Bond laid down beside the young woman, and ran the fingertips of his left hand across the roadmap of her body, pausing at some places, turning about in others.

The girl giggled at his ministrations, and Bond was reminded she was little more than that, a girl. A girl that could easily move beyond the dramatics of her younger years, and have the normal life she professed to dream of. Before too long, his touching moved beyond his fingertips, and her sounds grew much deeper than laughter.

"Do you like this suit?" she cooed to him. "It's one of the items you rescued yesterday."

He held a finger to her lips.

"I think I would like it better if it were lying on the floor," he informed her.

Soon, the swimsuits were shed, and her sweating body lay naked and waiting beneath him. As her eyes closed, and her body awaited his entrance, Bond reached over and gently tapped the top of the cigarette case. He quickly brought his mouth down hard upon hers, and as he slid forward, all heaven broke loose.

Fifteen seconds into the lovemaking, there was a brief flash, but the two of them were far too lost in each other to even begin to notice.

He awoke in darkness, with Kathleen nestled into the crook of his injured arm. Bond gently eased free, placing her head upon one of the silk pillows.

"Where are you going?" she asked groggily.

"The Prince may be back soon, Darling," he told her as he slipped back into his suit, and then carefully tucked the cigarette case beneath the elastic waistband. "I thought I might take a swim."

"I'll miss you," she grumbled before burying her head back in the pillow.

_I doubt that very much_, he thought to himself as he made his way up onto the deck. _After tomorrow, you are going to hate the memory of me for a good, long time. _

The amazing, star-filled sky of the Caribbean awaited him above deck. He'd spent quite a bit of time in this part of the world over the years, but he never grew tired of staring up into those heavens. 

James Bond climbed down the port ladder and into warm, night waters of Gelliceaux Bay. Keeping his strokes to a leisurely pace, it took him a little less than fifteen minutes to reach the sandy white shores of the cove. There he grabbed the Docksiders he'd left above the tide line tucked in amongst some drift wood and slipped them on.

The climb to Les Jolies Eaux from the beach was a little rough in the dark, and it took him nearly two hours and three security checkpoints before he reached the cool, marble floors of the winter home of the Countess of Snowdon. The white, Romanesque columns of the house stood out plainly in the starlight. The house had been designed by Oliver Messel and had been built on a piece of land given to the Princess by her former escort, Lord Glenconner, whose family had owned the old plantation island since the 1950's. 

It was little surprise to him to find the Prince's auto still gone, what he'd read of the man from the files left little doubt he would not arrive back until nearly morning.

He'd left his Rolex with his light luggage, but his internal clock was never that far off, and he gauged it to be somewhere around three a.m. He gave a brief wave to Ernesto, the butler, as he padded across the entryway floor. The man frowned when he saw the muck Bond trailed in behind him.

"Master Bond, if I could please convince you to kindly remove your…" he began, but Bond had already passed him and was headed toward his room on the far side of the house.

"Sorry, Ernesto, I've a plane to catch," he told the flummoxed butler.

Once inside his room, which the Prince had conveniently arranged to be as far from the master bedroom he shared with Kathleen as possible, Bond laid the cigarette case on the table, and depressed a latch on the side of the gunmetal frame. A small piece of paper about the size of a standard photograph rolled out from the case. For once, Bond was saddened to see that one of Major Boothryod's toys had performed its job flawlessly, as an image began to swim into view on the still developing photo.

His briefcase and luggage were already packed and waiting, and it took him only a few moments to change into the khaki shorts and light wool shirt he'd left set out on the bed.

So prepared, he went back to the picture to give it a moment's glance. His stomached turned at the horrible invasion of privacy he'd committed against a beautiful young woman, all so the Royal Family could be spared further shame. He thrust the thing into one of the heavy cloth envelopes from the writing bureau in the corner of his room, sealed it, and then scrawled across the front "The Duke, Personal."

As he left, he thrust the envelope into the chest of a shocked Ernesto.

"It is imperative you give this to the Duke first thing when he arrives."

"Master Bond, you'll never find an aeroplane this time of the night," he yelled at 007's back. 

Bond turned in the doorway to face him.

"She's already waiting for me, it's amazing what a few thousand pounds will buy."

Morning light was breaching the horizon as the island hopper came to rest at the airport on Saint Vincent. He would be catching a connecting flight to Atlanta, and then onward, back to London to report. It was October 12th, and by the end of the day the Prince would leave Mustique in a rage, abandoning his former lover on the island. The Fleet Streeters would have the story in print before Bond could even return to English soil. They attributed the break-up to the pressure of the constant paparazzi, and the badgering of the Windsor's. This little fantasy seemed to suit Her Majesty just fine.

James Bond would follow Kathleen's life from the little snippets he would gleam over time from news stories. She would eventually give up on films, marry well, have a son, and go through a messy divorce. He guessed that qualified as a normal life these days. A few years later, she'd become a truly gifted photographer. He liked to think their encounter, as horrible as it must have been for her, might have helped to break her free.


End file.
